My Sky

Even the sky doesn’t know what she is.
She’s this spectrum of most beautiful hope. Colours that aren’t named. Light. Into dark.

But more dark.

A small glow, a flicker. At the bottom. Small.
It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t end. But it does. Because suddenly it’s not there.
It becomes the blue. It becomes the black. It becomes the dark.

Is that why the dark is such a dark shade of dark? Because it consumed that light?
Is that the tragedy? That it would be nothing without it?
There is so much dark. Three quarters of the sky outside my window.
And night will come. And then all will be dark. Is it inevitable? For me? Yes.

But that light is still there. Just. I wish it hadn’t had to be so small.
In this sky of mine. Me.
A tear down my cheek, for what? I’ve never seen such a beautiful sky. Of every colour that’s never had a witness to call it a colour.

But to say it’s a confused sky? No. Never. I mean yes. But she knows it. She’s not confused. About the outcome, that is.
Yes, she has that small window of light. But she knows she will become the black. Oil. Its colours no longer fading

blending

It’s temporary.
She’s already darker, just in these lines. She’s almost gone. Forever.
She knows.
It’s what she is.

 

She’s gone now.